


Always, For You

by lacat123



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Love, Dean Winchester Being Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester is Protective of Sam Winchester, Fluff, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, John Winchester Being an Asshole, John Winchester Not Being an Asshole, John Winchester and Sam Winchester Fight, Pre-Canon, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective John Winchester, Sam Winchester Loves Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester is a Little Shit, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 09:56:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17098418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacat123/pseuds/lacat123
Summary: Everything Dean does is for Sam. To protect him and keep him safe, from all kinds of danger. So even to this day, he always does scissors. I wonder why?





	Always, For You

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! Here's another short one-shot that I wrote. This set in multiple time periods before the series, and John is both an asshole and actually a good parent. Hope everyone likes it!
> 
> Warnings:  
> Slightly graphic violence.
> 
> Ages:  
> 1988- Sam five, Dean nine  
> 1992- Sam nine, Dean thirteen  
> 1996- Sam thirteen, Dean seventeen  
> 2001- Sam seventeen, Dean twenty-two

_"Dean, always with the scissors."_  
_\- Sam_

 

_1988_

"Why do I have to be the lookout? Its so boring." Dean said from the backseat of the Impala, flipping his father's old sawed-off through his palms. The shotgun was heavy and large in his hands. "You get to dig, and Sam doesn't even have to do anything, just gets to sit here." 

John looked back through the dash mirror at his two sons. God, they would be the death of him. This was a simple hunt, just an angry ghost, but they had to make everything more difficult. 

"You know very well why, Dean. You're too small to dig and Sam is too young to shoot," He watched as his oldest slumped down and crossed his arms. He sighed. Sometimes it seemed as though Dean was already a teenager, and he really didn't want to rush to that stage. It's one thing to have a child who drinks a bit too young, another to have his 'angst' cause his family to die. 

"I'm not too young." Sam said softly. "I can hit five of the bottles now." A big smile lit the youngest's face. Dean reached over and ruffled his little brother's hair lovingly, before knuckling his head. Sam groaned and pushed him away. 

"This is only your fourth hunt, kiddo, and even though five bottle is a lot, I can't risk you actually being out there yet." He shifted to a sterner tone as he addressed the other one. "And Dean, I need you to watch my back, and your brother's. You know what will happen to us if you're not there. I'm relying on you,"

He could see the bit of pride that flushed Dean's features, but the scowl still remained. "But Dad, it's not fair-"

John roughly pulled the car off the road as he entered the graveyard's empty parking lot, and shifted the gear into park. He turned around in his seat, struggling to control his anger. "Not everything in life is fair. Its about time you learned that." He shoved open the driver's side door, walking to the back of the Impala and popping the trunk. 

Dean watched as Sam looked outside the window, longing on his face. The older brother leaned in, as though telling a secret. "I'll switch jobs with you if you want, Sammy." Sam's face shifted to excitement, then to fear as the possibility of actually hunting shifted into reality. "We just have to be careful Dad doesn't see."

Sam slumped farther back into the seat, hands moving to nervously twist together. "I don't know, Dean. Should we-"

Dean saw that his chance was slipping away, and did the one thing his brother would never resist: a challenge. "I'll do rock-paper-scissors for it. Or are you too scared, princess?"

Sam sat up straighter and nodded. Maybe he was scared, but Dean doesn't know that. And he was not a girl. 

They moved their fists up and down three times on their palms, before opening and displaying the options they chose. Dean smirked, knowing he had this in the bag. The kid always does rock, every time.

While Sam's hand stayed in a fist, Dean's opened flat to show paper. "Sorry, kiddo. Guess I won this time." He handed the shot gun to his brother, whose hands were barely large enough to properly hold the grip. He had a brief moment of doubt, before shaking it off. This was his chance. "Just remember to not let Dad see. He will skin us if he finds out."

Sam nodded, biting his lip and holding back tears. He was terrified, but he wouldn't let his brother see him crying. There was a ghost out there, and his family needed protecting. He would prove he was ready to hunt. 

"Dean, come on!" Their father called from outside, already moving down the path towards the grave plot, his shovel trailing on the ground. 

"I'm coming, Dad." Dean yelled back, pushing the door open and his brother outside. He watched as they both faded into the night, and leaned back. He let his eyes slip closed and hummed a rock song softly. 

A few minutes went by of quiet. No gunshots, no unearthly screeching. Everything was going according to plan, and all he had to do was challenge his five year old brother to rock-paper-scissors. For those few minutes, he could pretend he was in a home, lying in his bed. He would be going to sleep before midnight, and actually going to school the next day versus driving to the next stop. 

A sudden shout came from beyond the car, young and high pitched. It was followed by a single gunshot. Dean shoved the car door open and ran outside. The winding rock path seemed miles long as he pumped his legs as fast as they could go. He could see a small figure laying on the ground, not moving. He was slumped up slightly against a headstone which was sprayed with blood.

"Please, no." He whispered softly as he reached his brother's side. He could see that his chest was rising and falling, slowly and deeply. But a dark stain marred the blue of his new jacket aroundhis shoulder, and the liquid on the stone behind him shone so brightly red. He flipped his brother over so that he was facing him, and gasped. His face was sickly pale, a line of blood running from his temple down his face. He could see that there was a bullet wound on his shoulder, probably from their own gun. The one Dean had been in charge of. This was all his fault. He had teased his little brother into this, challenged him to put his life in danger. And for what? A few extra moments of silence? Of normality?

"Dad!" He screamed, hoping their father would come soon. He needed him, he couldn't deal with this by himself. He didn't know how. 

A low moan drew his attention back to Sam. His hazel eyes were opening blearily, unfocused. "Dean?" He asked softly, his voice trembling. A line of tears ran down his face, already dried.

"Its alright, kiddo. Its alright." He watched helplessly as his eyes slipped closed again, fresh salty drops running down his face. 

"-hurts" He breathed softly. Dean could feel a few tears slip out and hit his own cheek.

"I know, Sammy, I know. But Dad's gonna come, and we'll bring you to the hospital, ok?" He watched as his little brother nodded, slipping back into unconsciousness. His words weren't true. They would never go to a hospital, not for a bullet to the shoulder. Wasn't serious enough, and they would ask too many questions. Especially if it was a five year old who comes in beat to hell. CPS would get involved, and that meant leaving Sammy. And he would never do that. 

Another scream echoed through the graveyard, this one from a woman. Probably the spirit, Dean thought, as his father put it to rest. He could hear large footsteps pounding towards them.

"Sammy?!" John shouted as he saw them. He threw his shovel to the ground and raced to his son's sides. "What the hell happened here, Dean?" He yelled, looking over his youngest. He probably had a concussion, judging by the head wound. And was that a bullet hole? Shit. 

"I'm sorry. I should have protected him. This is all my fault-" Dean's breaths were coming in hiccuping sobs. John stopped looking over Sam and shook Dean's shoulders, hard, trying to pull him back. For a second he looked confused at the rough handling. 

"Focus. What happened. Was it the spirit? Is that who shot him?" Dean nodded, sniffling. The hunter got a feeling there was something more, but Sam was all that was important right now. 

He picked the boy up in his arms gently, barely registering the weight, before running back to the car. He knew he should have made sure Dean was following them, but all his focus was on the limp figure in his arms. 

He reached the Impala, shoving the backseat open and his youngest inside. He opened the driver's side and hopped in, shifting into reverse and pulling out of the lot. 

He looked back and saw that Dean was in the car, thank god, and cradling his brother's head. His hands were stroking the shaggy hair John insisted was too long but could never bring himself to cut. Sam loved his hair. 

"I'm so sorry, Sammy. I'm s-sorry," Dean kept muttering. He could only watch as Sam's chest rose and fell, needing the confirmation that he was alive. This was all his fault, all his fault. 

_1992_

"Why do I have to go down that creepy tunnel, Dad?" Dean looked down into the dark depths of the small sewer hole that lay sunken into the street of the small alley. He couldn't see anything beyond a few feet of ladder running down the side before it disappeared into whatever abyss lay farther. Each rung was coated with rust and damp. If it was his choice, he would have been out of here a few minutes ago when they pulled the manhole cover off and a smell so bad he gagged came out. But Dad said they had to finish the hunt, and the hunt led them down here. "Dean's older."

"But you're smaller," He shot back without thinking. Their father simply groaned behind them.

"I would go down myself, but I won't fit. Now, one of you is going down there and opening the maintenance door. Decide yourselves, boys." Dean just scoffed. So like their dad to not give a shit what happened to them, so long as the hunt went on. 

Sam shoved the flashlight, hard, into his brother's chest, before stepping back. "You're it."

"Sammy, that's not-" He stopped before he could finish, giving a quick glance towards Dad. He would never hear the end of it if he actually completed the phrase. Sam understood what he was saying anyways, though, and stopped. 

"Alright, you win. Rock-paper-scissors?" His younger brother asked hopefully. It had been forever since they had played that stupid game. He think they had stopped because he always won. Sam had an unfortunate habit of picking rock. It got too easy, and was therefore not fair. And a game like this needed to be fair.

"I'm in." He said, shoving the flashlight into his pocket. They faced each other, placing a closed fist on their palms. 

They went up and down two times, Dean repeating his choice again through his mind. Paper, always paper. Paper, or he would have sewage in his hair for a week. 

On the last hit, a sudden onslaught of images flooded him. 

_Sam holding a shot gun too big for him as he walked away from the Impala into a graveyard._

_Sam slumped against a headstone, blood dripping down behind him in small streams._

_Sam groaning through the belt between his teeth, his eyes screwed tightly shut as Dad pulled the needle and thread through his arm._

It was all his fault. He didn't really know why or how, but it was his fault. He couldn't do paper. Paper meant Sammy hurt. And he wouldn't let that happen, not again. 

He watched as his brother's face lit up at the sight of his two spread fingers, quickly jumping forwards to pound his closed fist on them. 

"Really, Dean? Scissors?" He just shrugged, pulling the flashlight back from his pocket and turning it on. His father looked down at him, scowling. Probably didn't approve of their childish methods.

A beam of white light illuminated the opening of the hole before him, and he stepped tentatively down onto the first rung. His hand gripped another, the metal cool and slimy beneath his closed fingers. 

He would never allow Sammy to get hurt again. Never. Even if it meant smelling like sewage. 

_1996_

"But, Dean, there's a new ride at the circus. I've been waiting for weeks go on it!" His little brother looked at him from the passenger seat, arms crossed. He took a deep breath and concentrated on easing the Impala out of their school's parking lot. 

"Sammy, we don't have the money to go. Dad's gone for at least another week hunting the werewolf, and we have to stretch the little we have left on food and gas." He saw Sam's face fall, his back slumping farther back into the seat. 

"Then how come you bet half our savings on that football game with your friends, and then came home too drunk to stand? We were going to use that extra to go somewhere fun, and I've been begging to go to this for-." 

"-Weeks" Dean sighed. Sam flicked on the puppy dog eye's, and if Dean had been anyone else he would have melted right then and there. But he'd been dealing with the kid for thirteen years. "Look, I know you want to go too, but unless we don't eat for the next few days, we can't afford two tickets."

"So you'd rather hang out with your new friends, gambling and drinking, then with me?" Sam asked quietly. The oldest swore quietly, backed into a corner. He couldn't say yes, as much as it was true. If Sammy was a few years older he'd understand why. They weren't even his friends, really, but they had promised to raid their rich parent's wine cellar at the party. And you had to make a small bet to get into the place. That match had probably been rigged anyways. 

"Sammy, you know that's not true. Just with the pressure of work, and school, I needed to blow off some steam," He cringed inwardly at his explanation, knowing that it wasn't necessarily true. He had been threatened that he may be laid off the day before, and as their savings dwindled, he had hoped the game would have actually panned out. It had been stupid, but worth it if it had meant he wouldn't have to tell Sam that they couldn’t stay in the motel and he would be going without breakfast. Dean himself was barely managing one meal a day to give Sam three. 

"Yeah, right." His little brother said sullenly. He looked over, and saw the barely-there glistening of tears in his eyes. Dammit, it was never good when Sammy cried. 

"How about when we get home, we can play a game or something?" He asked, trying to pull his brother away from sadness. They didn't have any games at 'home', the cheapest motel in the town, but he would figure something out. He always does. 

"Can we do rock-paper-scissors for it?" Sam said, sniffling a bit and sinking farther into the seat shamefully. Shit, he must really want to go to pull that card. 

Even though he had never actually told Sam about what had happened eight years ago, he had the nagging feeling his brother had been able to figure out from his and his father's curt answers about the scar on his shoulder. The nightmares he still had, waking up crying Sammy’s name and that he was sorry. 

He never could win that game. At first it was a conscious decision, a way to keep Sam safe on hunts. Always the scissors, and he would be the first to go into danger. But it branched from that. Now it was a superstition; don't do scissors, and Sammy will be safe. Even if it was something so small as who took the first shower, he always lost. Sam soon realized what he was doing, and they reached an understanding not to do it anymore. So if his brother was asking him now, it must really mean a lot to him. 

But he couldn't allow it. They would starve, not be able to go to school because of the lack of gas. He couldn't let a silly feeling let him be a bad guardian for Sam. 

"Alright, if we must." They spent the rest of the ride in silence, until they pulled into the parking space in front of their motel room. Sam raced into the room, shoving the door closed behind him. God, this was going to break his heart. 

Dean pulled the key out of the ignition and shut his door, walking up to the room where Sam was eagerly bouncing, waiting for him to open it. He fit the key into the lock and walked inside, turning on the lights. Sam threw his backpack on the ground and raised his hand. 

They did the customary three bounces, before showing their hands. Sam's was his normal rock, ready to break apart Dean's scissors. But instead, Dean showed a flat hand, paper. 

His little brother let out a little sob, before turning around and running into the bathroom. Dean could hear the lock click behind him, and sighed. Sam really was a teenager now. 

Just as he sank down onto the corner of the bed, his phone rang. He rummaged through his pockets until he found it, quickly flicking it open and holding it to his ear. As the words flowed from the small black cell, he could feel his hands start shaking. When the other line hanged up, he closed it softly. 

He shouldn't have done the paper. Always scissors, always scissors. Keeps Sammy safe, keeps them all safe. And he had to go and throw that out the window. 

He walked up to the bathroom door and rapped on it twice quietly. He waited a few seconds, and when the lock never undid, he talked through the wood. 

"Hey, Sammy? We have to go, kiddo." The door opened and revealed a crying Sammy, his cheeks red and glistening. He sniffled a few times, wiping his eyes. 

"What?"

“I-I lost my job. We don’t have enough to keep the room, so we’re moving the Impala to another lot. A-and sleeping there." He said, trying to keep his voice steady. Stay strong, for Sammy.

“Dean, I hate sleeping in the car. It makes my back hurt.” 

“I know, Sammy, I know. I’m sorry.” It's all my fault, he added on silently. 

His brother shuffled out of the bathroom, still sniffling, and grabbed his already-packed duffel from the bed. 

“Rock-paper-scissors for the backseat?” Dean asked, the meaning behind the words obvious to both of them. 

“No, just no.” Sam turned and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. 

“I’m sorry,”

_2001_

“Dad! Come on, it’s a school night. I can’t go on a hunt. Midterms are in a few days." Sam looked up from the book his head was buried in and flipped his hair out of his face. 

Their father sighed, and took a drink from his beer. “Sam, I really need you for this one. All hands on deck. I can’t take out an entire pack by myself!" Dean bit his tongue. He wanted to scream 'I'm here, too', but knew it would made his dad mad. He really didn’t want to make his did mad tonight. 

It had been four years since he had graduated high school and started to hunt full-time. Well, 'graduated' may not be totally accurate. But as much as he helps, his dad insists on involving Sammy routinely in their hunts, even if it is not needed. Like this one. It was hardly a 'pack', as their dad claimed, but a group of three who happened to band together. They could easily handle it without his little brother. 

"But I have to study! If I do well on these..." He trailed off, his face sad. Dean knew he wanted to do something with his life, go to college. But even if they could afford it, their dad would never let him. And his control expands beyond the age of eighteen. 

"Dad, we really don't need his help. We'll be perfectly fine with just-" His father cut him of by slamming his beer bottle back on the table. 

"School doesn't matter, Samuel. Hunting does. Your family does." He pushed his chair back and walked out of the room. Dean looked over at his brother, whose lip was trembling softly. 

"Sammy, you know that that's not true. Did you look at those scholarship essays we found?" Sam looked down and nodded. "Did you write one?" Sam nodded again and he laughed. He had given those papers to him less than a week ago, and each one needed at least five pages. Of course his nerdy-ass brother had already completed one.

He watched as Sam stood up and grabbed their laptop, opening it and pulling up the document. Dean walked around the edge of the table and looked over Sam's shoulder. Sam shifted uneasily, before standing up and grabbing a glass from the cabinet and filling it in the sink. Dean sat down in the abandoned seat and finished reading the essay. 

A few minutes later he leaned back into the chair. Sam looked at him from across the room. After a couple of awkward seconds he walked back to the chair and heavily sat down. "Well?"

"It's fucking awesome, Sammy. You’ll definitely get that scholarship." Instead of the prideful, puffing-up-his-shoulders little brother he had been expecting, he got the angry, yelling one. When he went to ruffle his hair, Sam flinched away. 

"It doesn't matter, none of this fucking matters!" Sam slammed his head down onto the table in what had to be the most angsty teenager move ever. 

"Of course it matters! It's your life!" He took a deep breath and calmed down. "Look, that essay is freakishly amazing, and you could use the scholarship.”

“Dad will never let me go to college.” His voice sounded so despondent. 

“You’ve wanted to be a lawyer for the past eight years. If he doesn’t approve, then fuck him and do it anyways.” Sam’s head lifted off the table and looked at him in surprise. He never talked bad about Dad, never. He was even a little surprised by his own words. “It’s your life, not his.”

Dean got up and went to the counter. “Hey, there’s one bag of M&Ms left. Rock-paper-scissors for it?” Sam smiles a bit and wiped his eyes. 

“Nah. Let’s share it.” 

**Author's Note:**

> That's the end! Thanks for reading!


End file.
